


The World Was Always Burning

by Lizicia



Series: We didn't start the fire but we tried to fight it [3]
Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: AU, Cheating, F/M, Introspection, So much angst, or an imagining of the future
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-07 15:17:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1121396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lizicia/pseuds/Lizicia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What they're doing is wrong, Liz has accepted that much. It contradicts everything she's ever thought about herself, everything everyone else has probably thought about her, so she thinks about it as little as she can. It's not an affair because she won't label it, she won't think about everything wrapped around it because it would become a weight on her shoulders and she doesn't want that. She never tells herself she's not cheating, though; the thought just stays with her and she hardens her heart against it, never willing to profile her own actions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The World Was Always Burning

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, so. This story just came into my head and wouldn't leave so I gave up and wrote it.  
> Posted at FF.net under a different title.

What started as a resolution to something he put into motion at a seedy nightclub while undercover, is really her doing if she lets herself acknowledge that she's the one that couldn't get the feeling of his hands on her hips out of her mind. From the very first moment his lips touched hers, she knew she would never forget it and tried to burn as much of it as she could into her memories forever. The way his injured side felt against her palm, the way his muscles contracted as she unwittingly and without thought touched it, the glint in his eyes when he whispered her name as a question, the second it took for an idea to form in her head. And she forgot all the rest; that she's married, that he's her partner, that it's crazy and dangerous and just went ahead and kissed him.

What they're doing is wrong, Liz has accepted that much. It contradicts everything she's ever thought about herself, everything everyone else has probably thought about her, so she thinks about it as little as she can. It's not an affair because she won't label it, she won't think about everything wrapped around it because it would become a weight on her shoulders and she doesn't want that. She never tells herself she's not cheating, though; the thought just stays with her and she hardens her heart against it, never willing to profile her own actions.

To Ressler's credit, neither does he. He never asks anything, never demands explanations, never even seems to entertain the idea that they should talk about this. Even after the first time he merely gave her a glance as she left and his eyes gave away no emotions.

_He presses her against the wall, all hard muscles and rough edges and she likes it. There's nothing sweet or caring about it, no smoothly caressing hands, only an edgy friction she craves, and the large hands that instinctively grip her hips. His mouth finds the spot behind her ear that makes her shudder and she just knows he smiles against her skin, proud and a bit smug for coaxing that response out of her._

It's not an affair because they never plan for this to happen; at least she doesn't. But as soon as they head out somewhere, as soon as the plane takes off, Liz can feel the itch, starting in the thrumming of her hand, in the dark recesses of her mind, burning with an intensity she can't quite control. And then it follows her around to every crime scene, on every car ride, in every step, makes her wonder how soon they can find a hotel room and sneak up or down a floor. Sometimes she thinks she can see that same edge of energy in Ressler but he never even hints at it.

_She shrugs off her jacket and helps him slide his over his shoulders and then undoes the buttons on her shirt and his. He never initiates this; it's as if he knows how much control she wants to exert, how she needs to have this thing and he lets her willingly. But then his hands slide over her stomach, smooth the edges of her bra, pop the button on her pants and he takes that control from her without leaving her powerless._

She doesn't let herself think what it means; to her, to him, to their job. If it was anyone else, she would be ashamed and worried about hurting them but somehow, it never seems as if any of this scratches even the surface when it comes to him. He doesn't treat her any differently, doesn't stand closer to her, doesn't let her get away with things and if she didn't know firsthand what they were doing, she would never know by just observing him. The more they do this, the less she can read him, a most puzzling occurrence and just hopes she doesn't become more transparent through it.

But then there are times, the rarest of times when he tells her something good, when he tells her she handled a situation well or she made the right call and she can't help but search some other meaning behind those kind words. And maybe she's deluding herself but in those moments it seems as if they're both thinking of the same thing, of what they never speak of and he lets some emotion rise to the surface. But she blinks and it's gone.

_They lose the rest of their clothing quickly, shedding everything to feel the skin underneath, to confirm they're really here, really doing this and nothing will stop it from happening. He kisses her a bit rough, more demanding and it's so different from what she's used to that this alone makes her want to surrender herself and she has to physically hold herself back. There is nothing smooth about him, all jaded and with a hint of bitterness, nothing apologetic about him and she likes it. She craves it, she thrives on it and the more he does it, the more she wants it._

There's always a bed but there hasn't been a single time they've made it that far, so Liz is very familiar with a lot of walls and desks, a couple of couches and even one surprisingly comfortable armchair. She's not sure if they never make it to bed because they're always in such a hurry or because they actively avoid it; beds are for lovers and this is not about that.

_The moment he pushes into her is always her favorite; all the restraint that he shows is remarkable and there's always a pause he takes before moving, a moment as if to tell himself something, to remind what this is. And then the air changes, he – always – kisses her neck and the world moves and she tries to hold on, tries to hold back. But it's too much, and she can't keep postponing it forever; it takes one slight change in angle, one carefully planned move and the precipice is right there._

He never says her name, never says anything at all, only rarely allows himself a few grunts. She prefers it, doesn't want to know what she could hear if he actually spoke. She doesn't know if the silence is because he knows how much he could give away of himself by speaking or if he's the same with everyone but she's come to appreciate the only sound being their breathing. Tom always calls her _Lizzie_ or _babe_ and she's starting to resent him for that.

_It ends the way it always does. They dress in silence and Ressler leaves because this time he came to her. She looks at the closed door for a long moment, reveling in the continuing hum of her body, in the way every nerve ending still buzzes with residual energy, in the knowledge that she'll be a bit sore in the morning. She takes a deep breath and can still smell his unique scent; whether it permeates the room or is firmly etched to her skin, it is nevertheless there and there's something simultaneously soothing and unnerving about it._

Liz knows that Red knows because he told her as much. _This is a dangerous game you're playing, Lizzie._ She knows he must have also said something to Ressler because he avoided her for the next three cases. And then she almost died and he was back, never saying anything about his absence or whether seeing her in such dire circumstances made the decision for him but she didn't ask either, only acquiesced.

But she's certain everyone else is oblivious; Meera hasn't given her any inquisitive looks, Cooper hasn't reminded her about certain FBI rules and Tom hasn't made any snide remarks. The truth is, she almost wants him to find out, wants to discover whether he would be hurt because she's come to think there isn't much that could hurt him. Once she loved him, she craved for his attention, she wanted to have a family with him; now she barely trusts him even though he's done nothing to really warrant that. But she can't get that box out of her head, can't forget the picture in Gina Zanetakos' house, can't not believe Red when he tells her to be wary of Tom. Once she would've protected him from the whole world and did so and now she hides from him.

It will most probably end badly, with her marriage crumbling – or whatever is left of it – and both their careers ending or at least backtracked a couple of years. If she thought Ressler would listen to her, she would tell him to stop, to think of his job, to not compromise himself like this, not for her. But another smaller part of her knows that if she asked him to, he probably would stop and she doesn't want him to. She wants to keep him, wants to see how far they can get, wants to see the world burn with them and once, just once, wants to hear him say her name like he means it.


End file.
